


The Highwayman

by ilikeyoshi



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood, Death, Gen, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-25 03:17:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4944697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilikeyoshi/pseuds/ilikeyoshi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"Look for me by the moonlight,</em><br/><em>watch for me by the moonlight,</em><br/><em>I'll come to thee by the moonlight,</em><br/><em>though hell should bar the way."</em><br/> <br/>Based on <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/171940">the poem of the same name</a> by Alfred Noyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Landlord's Nephew

It was on a winter's night, he'd said, that their lives would change forever.

He meant it, much like he meant every word he said, though the wait had been long and, most nights, lonely. Crossing the gap between stars was seldom easy, Wrathion knew that—his life all but balanced on such a fact. Seldom easy and, most nights, lonely.

But oh, he'd cross it, if it was the last thing he did.

He stopped at the same pond he did every time he came round, a body of water that had become less that and more a mirror to him. A final well wish before he passed the brow of the hill, where a little town called Theramore was sure to take notice of him, even if it was usually only one resident that did.

Wrathion fixed his coat and straightened his hat—the latter, in particular, had him smirking at the sight of it. He'd like it, Wrathion was sure. He'd patronize him about it, but he'd like it. Wide-brimmed, loud; yes, he'd patronize, but if nothing else, he'd have to admit it was befitting of its owner.

Well, its _new_ owner. Wrathion couldn't speak for the sorry sod he stole it from.

Mr. Throne snorted, earning Wrathion's attention, if irritably. The old stallion was clever, and surely liked Wrathion's choice of company more than Wrathion himself, which was likely why he hadn't simply run off after all these years. The promise of seeing more likeable faces every once in a while, coupled with Wrathion's brilliant taste in snacks, urged the beast to stay. The horse shuffled his feet, shaking his head with a soft whinny, and Wrathion rolled his eyes.

"Yes, I hear you," he said, approaching the beast, who tried to move back. Wrathion snatched his rein. "We are going. Hold still."

Throne snorted in his face, and Wrathion hissed back.

He hauled himself into the saddle and absently rested a hand on the hilt of his rapier, making certain it had not been nudged askew. Satisfied, he tugged the bunch of lace on his neck a little looser, then gently spurred Throne, who started in a brisk trot. The winter air was unkind, sweeping past him with drafts sharp as blades, and Wrathion cringed at their bite. The moon, bright as it was, offered no warmth, and the stars were lost to a sea of black fog and clouds, weaker than that great silver galleon in the sky.

They cleared the top of the hill, and Wrathion grinned at the little town beyond. Darling Theramore, once hardly noteworthy to the disreputably-named Black Prince; now, scarcely not on his mind. Whenever he was away, he caught himself wishing he were anything but.

And whenever he was near, the thought of leaving again was nearly deadly. But soon, he'd have the town's heart, and he could do without the rest.

With another nudge, Throne began down the highway. A dirt road turned to a cobble one, sure to stir the lightest of sleepers, though Throne was careful and Wrathion—well, it hadn't gotten him killed yet, so Wrathion didn't care. His eyes, auburn on the brink of outright red, never lost sight of the destination; a rib cage of sorts, and within,

the heart.

Throne huffed and snorted as Wrathion drew him to a stop, sidling him up against the wall of the inn. He unsnapped a coiled whip from his belt and tapped, so gently, on the window casement.

No answer. Wrathion grinned, tapped again, and still, saw no response.

"Cheeky," he mused aloud, and slipped his whip away.

He whistled, a song with too many meanings to count, all lost on anyone else—except one, who had never resisted it before, and tonight would be no different. And sure enough, Wrathion heard the lightest of footsteps before anything else. The casement jostled faintly as it was unlocked, and Throne inched a few paces back, as if aware Wrathion would need the aid to see. It rolled open, and the gold that poured forth might as well have rivaled the sun—perhaps, at least, if _he_ were not brighter.

The landlord's blue-eyed nephew, beauty and grace incarnate. He stood, smiling coyly— _Cheekily,_ Wrathion's mind rung again—his fingers sunk in the long hair pulled over his shoulder, twining a ribbon through the locks, a spiraling braid of red and gold.

Wrathion appreciated the metaphor. "My dearest Anduin."

"Wrathion," Anduin greeted. He leaned, perching his elbows on the casement and his chin on his hands, ever smiling down at the highwayman. "You are late."

"Late?" Wrathion's eyebrows pinched and he lurched, though his grin remained. "You know I've never promised you exact dates."

"You're late because I said you are," Anduin said. "I missed you."

Ah. Cheeky. "Shall I make it up to you?"

"You're _not_ coming in," Anduin said, resisting a snicker. "Or have you forgotten last time? Aunt Jaina nearly took your hand off."

"Stealing hands from thieves." Wrathion scoffed playfully. "The nerve."

"The nerve indeed." His words were snide, but Anduin was a terrible liar and terribly smitten. "Besides, perhaps she wouldn't have, if she hadn't caught it where it was."

"Oh, _details._ " Wrathion rolled his eyes. "Are you quite finished? I had something else in mind."

"I told you, you're not—"

"Something _else,_ my dearest," Wrathion said, smirking. He took a deep breath and, consequentially, straightened in Throne's saddle, earning an indignant huff from the horse. "Do you remember, long, long ago—"

"We've known each other two years."

" _You_ are the one who said I was away too long." Wrathion gave a sharp sigh. "Anyway—I once promised you much more than Theramore, didn't I?"

Anduin raised his eyebrows, even as they took on a questioning quirk. "You did."

"I said, if only you'd pay me the time, dear, I would see you rewarded—didn't I?"

"You _did..._ "

Wrathion grinned, and grinned wider when Anduin's eyes lit up against his wishes.

"You—"

"Pay me a night more," Wrathion said, and the edge fell from his voice; there was something soft to the words. "Just one more night, and I'll buy you ten years."

Anduin's forearms flattened on the casement, as he leaned closer, but the story between them still seemed so _far,_ as the gap between stars always was. "You mean it? Truly?"

"I have my eye set on a prize," Wrathion said, eyes glinting in that way they only did when he wanted something. "And once I have it, there is not a corner of this world I can't see you to."

Anduin was beaming, all but bursting; Wrathion was helpless to do anything other than mirror it.

"Where, my dear," he said, "would you like?"

"I can't just _go,_ " Anduin said, the words contradicting his excitement as starkly as the white moon did the black night. "What about Jaina? And—"

"And what about _you?_ " Wrathion asked.

Anduin's mouth snapped closed, and then he was smiling again. Wrathion was too.

"Ten years is not forever," he said.

"It is a _long_ time."

"You have waited long enough."

Anduin argued for the sake of rights and greater goods. Wrathion knew this, and he knew Anduin argued for them because he felt he should, because he was beauty and grace incarnate, and apparently that demanded something noble of him.

How telling it was, when one so noble fell for one so not; the difference between one who would die for their lover and one who would kill for him.

Wrathion would not force it, never; Anduin knew the right words for putting feet down, for freezing even highwaymen dead in their tracks, and he was not using any of them. His eyes were twinkling like starlight, like the hilt of Wrathion's rapier, and he had a certain glint when he wanted things too.

Anduin leaned a little harder on the casement, thinking—and admiring. He gave an acknowledging nod. "Nice hat."

Wrathion sneered gleefully. "You noticed!"

"How could I not? You look ridiculous."

"I knew you'd like it."

Anduin laughed, but the sound seemed weighted by his thoughts. He sunk farther on the windowsill.

"I missed you," he said.

"One more night," Wrathion promised, "and you never have to again."

Anduin grinned once more. His shoulders fell slack; he bit his lip, and his eyes glinted.

And Wrathion knew.

He rose to a stand in his stirrups, to Throne's snorted objection, and raised his hand to Anduin's casement. The story between them was so very far, and even standing straight, his arm high and elbow locked, he could only just brush Anduin's hand. His fingers curled against Anduin's, as if he could will them both just a little closer, but the gap between stars was seldom kind and, most nights, lonely.

Anduin smiled, with a trace of apology and a trace of light, and withdrew his hand even as Wrathion's curled tighter, a silent plea, one he would not dare see reach his lips. The wind swept in, as if to taunt him, as Anduin stood a little straighter in his window and ran his fingers through his braided hair. Wrathion watched, arm receding, though even now, part of him simply refused to surrender.

One night more was still a gap between stars.

Anduin's hands were graceful things—he could have been a doctor in a better life, Wrathion was sure. Or a highwayman. The detail and purpose of his movements were lost to Wrathion, dazed simply by the look of them, the warmth they'd left that lingered still on the tips of Wrathion's fingers. Anduin's own slipped between red ribbons and gold hair, precise, delicate—Wrathion would _kiss_ them if the gap were kinder.

Then the ribbon loosened, and his hair unfolded in waves. Wrathion's eyes widened a fraction, as his face lit up with a very gentle heat. He raised his arm again, as if to catch the cascading light. Anduin laid his temple on the casement, and his hair fell to Wrathion's shoulder and even his chest. A smile tugged hard at his lips; he hid it, wrapping Anduin's hair in his arm and kissing the waves. They were warm, but not as much as Wrathion's face; they were alight, but not as much as his heartbeat.

Anduin's voice was so soft when he spoke again. "Have you ever heard of the Veiled Stair?"

Wrathion's eyes opened, if just. His fingers twined in the gold, and Anduin hummed pleasantly. "Great steps, showered in mist. Yes, I know it. Why there?"

"I've heard of fountains there," he said. He sounded almost sleepy, the way his voice fell so quiet, as though the moment simply carried him away. "Legend says they pour waters with healing power unmatched; I hear it's beautiful."

"The Endless Spring," Wrathion said, smirking to himself.

"Have you ever been there?"

"No," he said, leaning against Anduin's hair, into his hand; "but I could take you. In a night, I could take you anywhere. I could give you the world."

Anduin laughed, and even that was gentle; Wrathion heard the smile caught within. "I don't need the world."

No, of course he didn't. He was beauty and grace and humility incarnate.

"I intend to be back before dawn," Wrathion said. He felt Anduin stir, as he lifted his head some, the cascades of gold following his lead as loyally as light into sunset. "But I expect trouble to follow me."

Anduin said nothing; he only frowned and laid his cheek against his arm, admiring the way Wrathion played with his hair, as though he couldn't see.

"So then, if not dawn," Wrathion went on, "look for me by the moonlight."

Anduin laughed again, as softly as before. "Always after dark with you."

"I need no sun with your light to guide me," Wrathion said, so surely Anduin wondered if it were somehow true. He raised his head to meet Anduin's eyes. "Watch for me. I will not be late."

Anduin resisted a laugh, and Wrathion knew he was right; his face was like a light. He grinned, for a second, and Anduin witnessed it falter for even shorter a moment.

"But I won't be alone," he said. "As is the way of things, hell should bar the way."

Hell meant many things to them, from distances to aunties to redcoats. Anduin smiled, as though he might shine through it; as though he might cast it away.

Wrathion smiled back, and gave Anduin's hair one last kiss before dropping back into the saddle. Throne stirred, aware of the signs of departure. Anduin straightened, running fingers through his hair, as Throne quickly turned restless.

"I'll come for you by the moonlight," Wrathion promised.

"Don't be late," Anduin said.

Wrathion grinned. "Cheeky."

Then, with a spur, Throne kicked off across the cobbles, and vanished up a ribbon of a road to the west. Anduin watched after him, until the night swallowed all trace of him, plaiting love knots into his hair.

It was not until Anduin gave in to the cold and tugged his casement closed with the gentlest of latches that the hostler below braved emerging from behind a stable-wicket that matched his height, successfully barring him from ever being seen. Hieronymus stared, pale-faced, to the hill where the highwayman had galloped away, unable to believe what he'd seen, no matter the number of times he rubbed sparks into his eyes.

He glanced up at Anduin's casement, shut now, any trace of light snuffed. Oh, the darling boy—smart as a whip and bright-eyed as any star—yet so, so heedless, so _headstrong._

He'd get himself hurt chasing liars and their empty promises.

Hieronymus' face hardened, though remained paled. He tugged his coat tight around himself, sniffing, then turned on his heel with a mission in mind. The boy would be devastated, he knew, but whatever was to come of his actions could not be worse than letting that highwayman ferry him off to fascinating places. He would heal.

He had his whole life ahead of him.


	2. The Redcoats

Anduin couldn't sleep.

He tried—oh, bless him, did he try. But every time he shut his eyes, it was not darkness that greeted him, but fountains of endless light; skies freer than his dreams could describe; eyes almost red, like the core of a hearth. He did not need the world, oh no, but that didn't mean he didn't long to see it, to watch how seasons changed when your bed was a different one every night.

He got more rest staring at the ceiling than he did closing his eyes.

And the moment dawn crawled in through the cracks of the casement, Anduin was on his feet. He stared out at the brow of the hill, where Wrathion always arrived from, on a road like a ribbon into the horizon. He watched, waiting with anything but patience, and the morning hours seemed to crawl by like years.

Noon announced itself not softly, like the sun in the middle of the sky, but abruptly, as a rapping knock jolted him awake from an impromptu nap on the casement. "Anduin!" Jaina's voice found him. "You've been in there all day! Come have lunch!"

"Yes, Auntie!" Anduin answered, trying his damnedest to mask the tired slur of his voice—but alas, he was a terrible liar, and he heard Jaina snickering on the other side of the door as she left.

As he rubbed the sleep out of his eye, he glanced up at the hill, where still, there was no sign of Wrathion. He feared to leave the casement—feared what might happen if he missed his return, as if Wrathion would not wait as Anduin always had, but—no, he shook the thought away and yawned. He left, nearly forgetting to unravel the ribbon from his hair. He couldn't help but smile, as he loosened it free, remembering the darling look on Wrathion's face when he'd let it fall before.

He was cute when he didn't think Anduin could see.

Anduin knotted the ribbon around his wrist and tugged his sleeve over it, then made his way downstairs. Jaina smiled brilliantly at him, firmly biting down a giggle at the tired look he couldn't quite chase off as he sat at the table.

"I heard whistling," she said, as she sat across from him.

Anduin's heart skipped a beat. "Huh?"

"You were up all night," she said, gesturing at him with a fork. She winked. "You whistle when you're absorbed in something."

Anduin blinked, and forced out a laugh he prayed she'd interpret as sheepish. "I—well..."

"Writing?"

"Y—yeah."

Jaina crooked an eyebrow. Anduin inwardly swore.

"It didn't turn out well," he hurried on, resisting all impulse to change the topic or, perhaps worse, distract himself with his lunch. "I guess I didn't have as much of a muse as I thought."

Jaina watched him for what easily felt like too long, and he could've collapsed out of his chair right there when she finally turned to eat. "I'll bet it turned out lovely," she said.

Anduin smiled, not in the least because he was grateful to have her take the lie. "It didn't."

"Can I see?"

He shrugged, forcing his shoulders to be steady. "If you want."

He might've been a terrible liar, but he certainly could plan—especially when mischief was the motivation. He _might've_ had a stack of emergency scrawls to be imposed when convenient. It seemed to be the only thing between him and a gilded cage. Jaina meant well, and had ever since his parents died.

He bit his lip, sure not to do so until she wasn't looking. He loved her, he did. Disappearing...

_"What about you?"_

He shook it. He'd write a letter. She'd forgive him.

Anduin glanced across the table, idly and for the sake of it, but something curious caught his eye. Or rather, the absence of something did.

"Where's Hieronymus?"

"An emergency called him away early in the morning," Jaina said, sounding just a little perturbed herself. "He left a note; he said he'd be back later today."

Anduin frowned. "Did he say what about?"

"Something about a horse thief, he said," she explained. "He felt obligated to tell someone what he knew."

She shrugged. Anduin let it go.

By the time lunch was over with, Anduin's nap was paying him back with an unseemly amount of energy. He felt truly restless, barely able to sit still, no matter how much he simply wanted to stay at the casement and watch the brow of the hill. He tried making as many trips up and down the stairs as could be excused by daily routine, and when he caught Jaina preparing to run some errands, he all but leapt at the chance to carry them out for her. Being away from the inn made him nervous, but he was afraid he'd burst if he didn't do something about the restlessness. A busy outing would tire him out just fine.

Wrathion would wait, if he had to. Anduin promised himself he would.

The errands did their job; by the time Anduin was finishing up, he could hardly wait to crash back down at the casement and not move, hopefully for hours yet. Theramore seemed off in a way he couldn't place. Tense, like a storm was brewing in the distance, but the sky was clear and Anduin hadn't heard anything—rather, he hadn't thought to listen. His mind was full of errands and escapades, love knots and stars crossing at long last.

And, as was the way of things, he should've listened.

His return to the inn yard was met with a heated argument that he heard well before he cleared the fence and could see for himself. Hieronymus had returned, for Anduin recognized his voice, but he did not recognize the other. A woman's, but not Jaina's, not anyone who frequented the inn. She was hostile, though, and Hieronymus sounded squeakier than normal. Anduin picked up his pace.

When he rounded the corner, he froze dead in his tracks. The satchel he'd taken with him dropped to the cobbles, and the glasses within shattered, staining the fabric red. Hieronymus's head whipped his way, and so too did the head of a woman Anduin indeed didn't know, but he knew enough.

Her coat was red.

"You," she snapped, releasing the handful of Hieronymus' shirt she'd held as she marched his way. "You're the landlord's nephew?"

"I—" Anduin's throat filled with sap or maybe rocks. He glanced helplessly between her and Hieronymus, and the hostler looked sorry.

So sorry.

"It's okay, Anduin," he said, and he sounded _so sorry._ "Take it easy."

A horse thief—

"What did you do?" Anduin said.

Hieronymus mouth snapped closed, and Anduin all but ignited.

" _What have you done?!_ "

"Listen to the man, boy," the woman said, snatching back Anduin's attention with a whip of his head. She hadn't slowed for a moment of the exchange. "Come here—"

"No," Anduin said, as he took a step back.

She didn't hesitate; she lashed, with all the precision of a snake, and her fingertips bit like fangs into his arm before he could turn and flee.

"Let me go!" he shrieked, jerking against her, but she was easily too strong.

"He comes here for you, doesn't he?" she said.

"I—I don't know what you're—"

But alas, he was a terrible liar. The woman grinned in a sneer. "That's what I thought. C'mon."

"Corastrasza, ma'am, don't hurt him," Hieronymus said, hands raised. "He's a good kid, really—"

The woman, Corastrasza, turned for the inn, dragging a kicking Anduin with her as she all but trampled over Hieronymus. Another redcoat joined her side—Anduin didn't see where he'd come from, but he snatched the boy's free arm, and he and Corastrasza hauled him inside. A glass shattered; his eyes shot up to spot Jaina, hand flinched open, and out the corner of his eye, Anduin saw even more redcoats seated about the bar, like vultures, _waiting._

" _Anduin?_ " Jaina erupted, hurrying away from the counter and broken glass.

"Jaina!" Anduin cried, again resisting the redcoats' grips, forgetting anything else. "Please, you have to—"

Corastrasza yanked Anduin's arm in retaliation, earning a pained yelp.

"Hey," Jaina snapped, storming closer, as several redcoats rose from their seats; "what are you—"

"Official business," Corastrasza said, raising a hand as Jaina neared. "You'd best stay out of it."

"Like hell," Jaina spat back. "Not if he's involved— _what_ is going on?"

"They're going to kill him!" Anduin shouted.

"Kill who—" Jaina started, and then the color fell from her face. "Oh no—no, Anduin, you didn't—"

"Please," he begged, straining against the redcoats' hands. "Please, don't let them do this!"

"I don't want to hurt your nephew," Corastrasza said. Jaina looked at her, steel-eyed, but quiet. "And I won't have to, if the both of you do as you're told."

"You're dragging him around like some kind of _criminal_ —"

"I'm _dealing_ with a criminal," Corastrasza growled. "A _murderer,_ to be exact."

Anduin's heart stopped; Jaina's eyes went wide. "A— _murderer?_ " she repeated. "Wrathion is—"

"He killed one of mine," Corastrasza said.

"It was self-defense!" Anduin yelled at her.

"Rheastrasza was a damned good—"

"She killed his mother!"

Corastrasza snarled, and the next thing Anduin knew, the back of her hand struck his face with all the force of fire. His head shot to one side, and he barely recognized the pained gasp as his own, nor the angry shriek that followed as Jaina's.

" _Don't_ touch him—"

"Jaina!" Anduin heard a voice from the door—Hieronymus.

She didn't hesitate for him, reaching for Corastrasza. The redcoat released Anduin's one arm to step back and grasp for—oh, Anduin's vision blurred, her _musket_ —he lunged forward, trying to reach for the gun, but the other redcoat snatched his free arm and dragged him back. Several more raised weapons of their own.

"No!" Anduin cried. "No, please!"

"Stop!" Hieronymus shouted, jumping between Jaina and Corastrasza, gripping the landlord's elbows and pushing her back. "Jaina ma'am, please, let them do their jobs!"

Jaina wouldn't hear him. "If you lay another hand on Anduin—"

"I _won't,_ " Corastrasza growled, " _if_ you cooperate."

Jaina lurched, snarling in turn, and Hieronymus curbed her advance, successfully earning her attention, if only for a moment.

"They just want the robber," Hieronymus said, even as Jaina's eyes fired back to Corastrasza. "They'll leave once they have him."

"They'll _kill him,_ " Anduin shouted.

Corastrasza shrugged. "If it comes to that—"

" _Liar!_ "

"Anduin, please!" Hieronymus said.

Tentatively, he released Jaina, who stood nearly still, besides an angry tremble as she glared outright fire at the redcoats. Corastrasza observed this, and warily raised her hand. Her troops lowered their weapons at her order. Anduin let go of a shaking breath.

"Release my nephew," Jaina said, her voice as her body was; trembling with withheld anger.

"I need him," Corastrasza said.

Jaina took a step forward, restraint slipping, spooking the redcoats. "What do you mean you—"

"Bait," she hissed back; her men gave pause. "He won't be harmed. I just need a guarantee the Black Prince will come."

" _Never,_ " Anduin growled, yanking futilely against the redcoat behind him. "I'll never!"

"I know," Corastrasza groaned, allowing her eyes to roll. "That's why I'm not asking you."

Desperate, he turned to Jaina. "Auntie, _please_ —"

"I'll not let you drag him into the crossfire," Jaina hissed at Corastrasza, leaning just far enough forward that Hieronymus' hands raised preemptively. "My inn is not your battlefield!"

Corastrasza clucked her tongue. "Don't make this ugly."

"Get out!" she said.

The redcoat took a deep sigh in, and nearly another roll of her eyes, and stared off at something else for a moment. She blew air through sealed lips, and lolled her head around to the redcoat restraining Anduin.

"Mostrasz," she said, and he straightened. "Hold him."

Anduin tensed, as Corastrasza's eyes flickered back to Jaina.

"Arrest her."

His stomach dropped, as several redcoats, quick as whips, snatched Jaina's arms. "What—No, what're you doing—"

"Release me!" Jaina snarled, lurching, but a third came to his comrades' aid, and she was overpowered and dragged away. "No! Let me go!"

"Jaina!" Anduin shrieked, jerking against Mostrasz's grip with nearly enough strength to break free. "Stop! Jaina!"

"Anduin! Just—" Anduin heard her swear underneath a growl. "Just do what they say! Just, please, get through this!"

"No!" Anduin said, and jerked again, even harder; his arm broke out of Mostrasz's hand. " _No!_ "

Mostrasz tried to apprehend him again, just barely managing to hold fast to Anduin's other arm, as the boy scrambled away. He heard Jaina shouting for him, and Hieronymus too, but all he saw were redcoats in the corners of his eyes, and he was heedless, headstrong; they would not _use_ him.

"I won't!" he screamed. "I won't let you—"

A gunshot went off, deafening Anduin as light exploded across his eyes. The world fell away, with only fragments reaching him through the white haze. A scream, Jaina's—hands clenched tight around his arms—a red love knot on his wrist—

When Anduin's vision cleared, he was being dragged toward the stairs. His right knee was deep red, bent odd; a ribbon of blood followed him up the steps. Anduin didn't understand, even as the pain began to sink into the wound. He didn't understand, as his bedroom door shut with a clatter he barely heard. The redcoats, the two that had caught him in the first place, hauled him to the foot of his bed; at some point they obtained several coils of rope, and Anduin was too dazed to fight them off as they bound him to the bedpost, standing him straight.

He blinked at the blood pooling under his right foot, tied with extra reinforcement to keep him from standing on it and perhaps to curb the bleeding, but it hurt like hell. He didn't know where Jaina or Hieronymus were. Fear set in like the winter air. He lifted his head and found Mostrasz, ordering other redcoats about. Anduin tried to speak, to beg, but his voice came out in mangled heaps; he tasted cloth in his mouth and realized he'd been gagged. The rag was an appropriately chosen color—white, but not bright enough that Wrathion would see it against Anduin's skin before it was too late.

His heart sank, as redcoats swarmed around him, rushing up and down the hall with footfalls loud enough to carry through his door. He could make out Mostrasz's orders now; there'd be at least one redcoat at every window. He whined into his gag as tears pricked his eyes; all it did was earn a whip of Corastrasza's head.

"Don't cry, darling," she said.

Anduin snarled at her. She snorted, as if he were petty, then glanced idly somewhere else and smirked. Anduin watched her approach one of her redcoats and snatch her musket, to the soldier's alarm, then approach Anduin with another coil of rope.

"Here," she said. "Want to help?"

Anduin struggled against all his restraints, no matter how it hurt his leg, as Corastrasza strapped the gun fast to his side, nearly as if he had a free hand to perch it on the floor. _Like a cane,_ he thought, and didn't know if that was the joke, or if it was the way the barrel prodded painfully between two of his ribs.

"There you are," Corastrasza said, shifting to stand in front of him. She smirked at his glare and patted his cheek. "Now keep good watch."

Honestly, he wished he could bite her.

She left him after that, and ignored him as he kicked up a fuss, writhing and whining. All of them did, as if they'd done this a thousand times, and hell, perhaps they had. He tired quickly, the blood loss and his errands sapping his energy all the worse, and soon, it was all he could do to stare with numb horror at the scene around him. The halls outside had quieted, as all the redcoats took their positions. The entire inn was armed, every window watched.

Anduin stared out his own, as the sun disappeared behind the brow of the hill, where Wrathion always arrived from. His promise was suddenly bounding through Anduin's mind.

_"I'll come to you by the moonlight."_

He shook, fighting back tears. He wouldn't let this happen—they would not _use_ him, like Wrathion was no more than a rapid dog, and Anduin a slab of meat to lure him in. He jerked, but he was weak, and the shock was waning; the action hurt him dearly and left him cringing painfully into the rag.

_"Hell should bar the way."_

He clenched his teeth—as much as he could with a gag in his mouth. He glanced at the redcoats, all settled in their places, perfectly comfortable ignoring him.

 _Good,_ he thought, and focused what energy he had left into writhing only his hands.

The sun abandoned him, casting a moonlit darkness into Anduin's room. He didn't care about that, or the cold that poured in as the redcoats watched from the corners of the open window, or the rope burns on his wrists that reddened and reddened until they were outright bloodied, dripping to join the pool under his right foot. It hurt, it _burned,_ but every time it crept too close to unbearable, he retold himself all the stories he knew about the Veiled Stair, the legendary healing waters, and he carried on.

He twisted and writhed, stretched and strained, and time seemed not to move at all. The night seemed eternal; the hours crawled by like years. The musket stirred ever so slightly at his side, as Anduin's struggles slowly nudged it askew. At some point, his efforts became even more concentrated, as he focused on the gun, _obsessed_ over it—he didn't know what he'd do with the damned thing. Even if he were to get his hands free and seize it, he'd only be able to shoot a maximum of one redcoat, and he had never handled such a weapon before. He'd never reload it before he was shot down. Yet even still, he nudged and writhed, until he could bump the trigger guard with the heel of his palm.

There was no point to the achievement, not without his hands freed—and even then, what was there? Perhaps a tiny spurt of vengeance, but what did that matter? Anduin wasn't the type.

He felt the cool touch of a bloodied love knot unravel partway from his wrist, worn by the rope that chewed through it and his wrists. The faint chill startled him, as the ribbon kissed his fingers, the sensation all too familiar, and he thought—

He held his breath.

He tangled the ribbon in his fingers, and licking his lips in concentration, carefully stretched them toward the trigger guard. The strain was very apparent—at moments, Anduin thought he was dislocating his fingers by sheer power of will—but the endless minutes paid off, as he managed to loop the love knot, just once, around the trigger. A noose, of sorts; and deadly as one too.

He breathed, slow and steady, terrified of one wrong move. If his leg surged with pain, if one of the redcoats coughed—all it'd take was one flinch, and the musket would shatter his breast.

But he knew—oh, he knew that was the point.

They would not use him.


	3. The Highwayman

Time was but a haze. At some moments, Anduin felt rather grounded, certain the minutes were ticking by as they were supposed to. Other moments, he felt so lost to blood loss and delirium that not only was he not sure days hadn't passed, but he could almost convince himself this was all just a horrible, horrible dream. He prayed, at moments desperately, that a whistled tune would wake him at last.

His hands burned to the point that pain was all he felt in them. He couldn't tell if his fingers moved or not, but did not dare test by intentionally using them. His leg ached so badly that sometimes it was all he could do to roll his head and groan. He wanted to fight, to writhe and break free, but he knew better; he knew he couldn't now.

He sealed his fate with a love knot. So he waited.

He waited and prayed, prayed, _prayed_ that somehow, someway, he wouldn't have to go through with it. Maybe Wrathion knew they were here; maybe he'd be cautious when he approached, or better yet, maybe he wouldn't come at all.

Maybe he was already dead, killed by whatever dangers stood between him and his prize. Anduin squeezed his eyes shut and bowed his head.

And then he heard it. So faint, at first, so much so that Anduin had to strain to listen, but the moment he was sure, he forgot himself and his head shot up. The redcoats hadn't paid him any mind for hours, not with the way his injuries and exhaustion bled the life out of him. They didn't see, and Anduin couldn't believe it, but they didn't _hear._

They sat, as dull and bored as always, as Anduin's heart raced so fast he was sure it'd burst. But he heard it, he knew he did. Horse hooves in the night, trotting closer, and then—

There, on the brow of the hill. The redcoats straightened; Anduin whined.

They shuffled for their guns, eyes trained on the ribbon of moonlight, the road that led down to Anduin's window, the road Wrathion always arrived from. He didn't know. He _didn't know._

Anduin trembled, waiting, praying he'd figure it out somehow. He was clever, he was so damned clever, and so damned _stupid,_ and he _didn't know._

It wasn't fair.

Mostrasz glanced at him. Corastrasza did too. They watched him, as if they thought he might try something. Anduin straightened, holding himself high, damn his leg, damn his tears.

And Wrathion came, nearer and nearer, and Anduin realized it'd been true; his face was like a guiding light to the highwayman.

Anduin loved him. Oh, he loved him so.

He drew a deep breath. His eyes rolled closed. He told himself all the stories he knew of the Veiled Stair, all the stories he knew at all, of a world he'd never see, of a world he'd give away because he didn't need it, he didn't want it, not without him, not at the _cost_ of him—

Into his gag, unheard by the redcoats, he said:

"Forgive me."

Then his finger moved in the moonlight.

His musket shattered his breast, in the moonlight, and warned him.

And Wrathion froze dead in his tracks.

He yanked Throne's rein and spurred his side, and with a shriek and a rear, the beast spun round and galloped, back over the brow of the hill, past the mirroring pond, and deep into the dark west.

He didn't know. He didn't know.

Anduin stood, head over musket, fate sealed with a love knot. He'd kept watch.

And Wrathion didn't know.

A setback, he promised himself—Theramore was not without its squabbles, he knew, what with people fighting over the government there and so forth. A setback, nothing serious, nothing that could not be amended.

He'd be late. He swore.

He lingered on the edge of a nearby settlement, as dawn crawled into the sky. He listened for word of Theramore, for rumors—just to be sure, because if there were redcoats, he couldn't go near.

There were redcoats. He swore again.

He tugged his satchel into his lap, tapping his fingers restlessly and sporadically on the prize within. He called it a prize, but really, no one would pay anything fancy for it. Wrathion had the money. He was a highwayman, infamous, _disreputably-named_ —of course he already had the money. This? This was something extra, something Wrathion had been after for months and months, something Anduin would like.

And finally, here it was, clicking away under his fingernails.

He lingered, listening for word. They had come for a robber; they had holed up somewhere to catch him by surprise. An innocent boy died. An inn was seized. The landlord's nephew—

Wrathion's heart stopped.

He whirled toward the voice, a patron in the bar they shared, looking saddened but overall unaffected by the rumors he spread. Wrathion was upon him before he could safely set down his drink; it splashed everywhere, red like a knockoff wine, as he smashed the patron against the wall, not because he did anything wrong, but because Wrathion had.

"What happened in Theramore?"

His voice was not fire, but ashes.

"I—" the patron wheezed, gripping at Wrathion's arm. "Let go—"

" _Answer me._ "

"Redcoats!" he barked out. "Some—some lot of Alexstrasza's, lookin' for a robber or something."

"The inn, the ambush, the b—" Wrathion caught himself. "Tell me."

"They took over an inn, yeah." He cringed as Wrathion's hand tightened around his throat without his meaning to. "Snatched up some kid as bait—a lover, I guess—"

No.

"—went south, though—"

No, no, no...

"—died—"

Wrathion threw him to the floor as he whirled, and before the patron could even shout at him, he was out the door. Throne's ears swiveled forward in an instant; he did not back away when Wrathion snatched for his rein. He hoisted himself into the saddle, skewing his rapier, and spurred Throne into a gallop straight into the east.

The redcoats would be there, he knew—they would not leave so soon.

Good.

Throne cared not that he'd ran all through the night. As though Wrathion's anger bled into the stallion, he galloped on wrath alone, every mile too far, too long—the gap between stars.

But one had fallen from the sky, and Wrathion barely knew the way without its light to lead him.

The pond exploded under Throne's feet, a final well wish; the brow of the hill all but split in two, as the beast galloped overhead, and darling, damned Theramore came into view. Anduin's window was open and dark, and Wrathion shrieked, his blade ringing as he drew it free. He saw them, the redcoats, as their heads whirled to the sound of his voice.

The spurs on his boots were bloodied, and then, so was the front of his coat.

A gunshot rang out across the moor, identical to the one in the night, the one he'd fled from, the one that had taken Anduin—stealing from thieves.

 _The nerve,_ he thought, as he crashed to the highway, to dirt and blood and wooden tiles; as his hat bounded away, as the bunch of lace tangled at his throat. A shower of red-and-white game tiles rained down around him, a prize shattered in the fall. He laid, still and bleeding, and stared into his hand, where even now, he felt the warmth that lingered still on the tips of his fingers.

It wasn't fair.

His eyes, auburn on the brink of outright red, mustered only one tear, and then he too fell from the sky.

It was on a winter's night, he'd said, that their lives would change forever.

———————————————————————————————————————————

 _And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,  
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,           _  
_When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,_  
_A highwayman comes riding—_  
_Riding—riding—_  
_A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door._

 _Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard._  
_He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred._  
_He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there_  
_But the robber's blue-eyed starlight,_  
_Wrynn, his dearest starlight,_  
_Plaiting a dark red love knot into his long gold hair._


End file.
